Lyrics- ‘Heather’, by Conan Gray
I still remember, third of December…
You had a habit of keeping things. A keyring, a lock of hair, a stray red ribbon. You held them up to the light like they were treasure. I never understood why, not even when you explained they reminded you of life, so that fifty years later, when you were old and gray, you would look back on these memories with joy. Those memories weren’t even yours, yet you held them close.
Continue reading“Too much garlic!” Amma snaps, muttering in Bengali.
She wants it her way- ancestral, based on her intuition, no rules, no measurements.
I tap numbers into my phone. Science over soul, any day.
She rolls her eyes. Bangles clink. I stir the pot. My speaker blasts music.
The kitchen’s a war zone.
She slides in a pinch of cumin, claiming her territory.
We collide over one pot.
“This is really good! What’d you put in it?”
Maybe flavour isn’t about being the same.
Signing off…
The dinner table was set for four. Most chairs were never used, though. Mum still wiped every placemat down. Dad still buttered his eggs and fried his toast in front of the television. I gasped. The air pressed down.
No one smiled or shouted. Words became kindling.
When I dropped my spoon, Dad looked up. Mum raised her eyebrow.
A match was struck.
The start of something real again.
But then, they looked away again. The house fell silent.
Sometimes, I think we’ve burned, and all that’s left is the ache of ash learning to breathe.
Signing off…
When I was younger, I really wanted to be the best at everything. I did ballet, dabbled in sports, creative arts here and there, and of course, academics were seated front and center. But the one thing that I really loved playing was badminton. Mind you, back then, I didn’t even go to training, hadn’t done even a single class. The rush of adrenaline when the shuttle struck the strings with a sharp ‘ping’, the realisation that I was one of the ‘sporty girls’ who now played ‘comps’ on the weekend with their oversized jerseys, knee pads and spandex shorts was enough to have me hooked. Obviously, I ignored the fact that badminton didn’t use any of that gear, like the delusional nine-year old I was.
Continue readingWe worship the neem tree on the first day of Chaitra, after Amavasya, when the moon is absent and darkness blankets every city in its comforting embrace. It is a time of honouring ancestors, performing rituals and connecting to our spiritual traditions. In West Bengal, where I am from, it is considered a manifestation of Goddess Durga, and the abode of Sitala, the protector against all sickness. For that reason, we eat its leaves, mixed with pepper and sugar, to ward off fever, and we burn the neem, to protect the living and the dead from evil spirits. In the same way, the tulsi is considered a manifestation of Goddess Lakshmi and Lord Krishna, and its presence is believed to increase purity and attract prosperity and protection.
Continue readingHello to my dear readers:)
I apologise for the overwhelming influx of micro fictions you’ve been getting recently. As of right now, I am overseas, so posts will be delayed and shorter because of my incredibly poor internet connection:((( It will return to normal from February, though!
She found the spare key on her kitchen counter one morning, glinting in the sunlight.
She lived alone. She was sure of it.
At first, she assumed she’d forgotten—misplaced it, set it down without thinking. But each day, the key appeared somewhere new. On the windowsill. By the sink. Once, tucked neatly beneath her pillow.
She started locking her bedroom door at night.
On the fourth night, she woke to the sound of metal scraping softly against the lock. Careful. Patient.
In the morning, the spare key was gone.
Her bedroom door stood open.
And the front door was locked from the inside.
Signing off..
You know, I’ve always thought of fame like a mirror- clean, polished, ever-so-perfect- a perfect reflection of joy and wealth and all you could ever want. But anyone who has ever watched Citizen Kane or Strictly Ballroom may just think that it’s a hall of mirrors- distorted, maybe a little dazzling, perhaps pretentious and sometimes incredibly ridiculous. And yet, for those reasons we rarely admit, we keep wandering into that hall, hoping that one of those mirrors will one day, show us the version of ourselves we secretly want
to be.
She woke to her phone buzzing on the bedside table.
One missed call. No number. No voicemail.
The time stamp read 3:06 AM.
Her heart skipped. That was the time he used to call, back when sleep wouldn’t come and the world felt too heavy. She told herself it was coincidence. Phones glitch. Memories lie.
Still, she checked her call history every night after that.
On the seventh night, the phone rang in her hand.
Unknown number.
3:06 AM.
She answered, breath shaking.
Silence—then a soft inhale on the other end.
“I just wanted to know,” a voice whispered, “if you still keep the light on.”
The call ended.
Her lamp flickered.
Signing off…
So, there’s always a point in time where you just want to…eat.
After your Year 10 yearlies end.
Before tutoring.
At 3 a.m. in the morning away from the windows because you never know what’s going to jump out at you.
Or maybe, you always want to eat.
Either way, there are some foods I always go back to- most of them MIGHT be incredibly unhealthy, but then again, this isn’t a post encouraging dieting- quite the opposite.
So, here are five of the meals in which I find my everlasting comfort.
Continue readingMira fell asleep with the radio on again, the soft hiss of static filling the room like fog. She’d started leaving it on ever since the nights began feeling too quiet, too hollow, like something was waiting for her to notice it.
At 2:17 AM, the static sharpened. Shifted. A faint voice slipped through the noise.
“Mira…?”
She jolted upright. Her name—clearly spoken, threaded through the static like someone whispering underwater.
She turned the dial with shaking fingers. More static. A crackle. Then again:
“I can’t find you.”
Her chest tightened. It sounded familiar, achingly so. A voice she hadn’t heard since last winter’s accident. A voice she missed every day.
“No,” she whispered. “You’re gone.”
On the radio, the static swelled… then softened, as if exhaling.
“Then why,” the voice murmured, “are you still listening?”
The radio clicked off by itself.
And the room wasn’t quiet anymore.
Signing off…